


the kings and queens (we ruled the world)

by yeeharley



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Arson, Blood, Bombs, Broken Bones, But there's comfort, Concussions, Fire, Found Family, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Like such a dad, Multi, Peter Parker is a Mess, Precious Morgan Stark, Protective Peter Parker, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Whump, Whump Bingo: Big Brother Instinct, at the end lol, heavier on hurt, like gratuitous angst, smoke inhalation, tony stark is a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: Peter heads down the stairs to wait the night out on the couch. He never makes it to the living room.The familiar buzzing sensation of his spidey sense goes off halfway down the hallway, right as he's passing the bathroom. Peter reacts only a second too late- he jumps back just as an explosion rocks the house, ripping through the floor in front of him and sending him flying backward. He hits a wall hard, slams his head into what feels like a table, and slides to the ground with firecrackers of pain in his temples.Morgan screams.It feels like something's broken in the back of his neck- maybe just shifted out of place, actually, because God, he hopes he hasn't broken his neck. That would be really bad. Can you shift a vertebra out of place? Peter hopes so, because anything more is something of a catastrophic scale that he can't really think about.And besides, who would protect Morgan?(Fulfills square #14 of my whump bingo card: Big Brother Instinct)
Relationships: Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Tony Stark & Morgan Stark, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Comments: 20
Kudos: 415





	the kings and queens (we ruled the world)

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on my existing works but I've decided to kinda procrastinate that until I literally can't do it any more. So, without further ado, the first installment in my whump bingo series! Yay me. :)
> 
> As usual, yell at me on my tumblr at [silver-bubbles](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/). And, if you want to, follow me or subscribe to my ao3 so you can get updates and snippets of upcoming works-in-progress. Love you all!

Morgan Stark is born in what Peter thinks of as the Five Years. The period of time where he floats around in a void of darkness and nothing, feeling nothing, saying nothing, doing nothing. All he knows for those years is that he exists- to what extent, he has no idea.

Tony Stark and Pepper Potts become Tony Stark and Pepper Stark during the Five Years.

Happy Hogan and May start dating during the Five Years.

Peter's friends from school, with the exception of Ned and Michelle and Betty and Flash, grow and graduate and go to college during the Five Years.

_The world moves on during the Five Years._

And Peter misses it all. He misses Tony and Pepper's wedding, Morgans birth and first four birthday parties, May and Happy's one year, two year, and three year anniversaries.

He misses the desperate attempt to bring himself and the other Dusted back.

He misses the struggle through fight after fight, through the fabric of time and space, the explosion that turns the Avengers Compound in upstate New York into an apocalyptic wasteland.

And Peter watches as Tony Stark, Iron Man, the only hero he's truly looked up to for the majority of his life, snaps his fingers and _dies_. The sensation of his hand over a humming arc reactor will _never_ leave him, especially when the reactor that powers his mentor's heart stops running entirely and Tony's hand falls and Pepper starts crying and they all _kneel and Peter's sobbing, sobbing, sobbing, because he's back and he's alive and there's no reason to be because Tony is gone gone gone GONE-_

But Iron Man has died countless times, and every time, he's made it back to fight another day.

So it makes sense that this isn't the exception.

Peter sits in the sterile waiting room of a hospital in Brooklyn for three days. Pepper and Rhodey stay for the first, but they have to leave after a few hours to go take care of Morgan. Then it's May and Happy, but they leave, too.

May tries to get Peter to come home with them, but he stays. Says it's because he doesn't want Tony to wake up alone.

Really, they just serve to remind him that he _died_. He died and they _moved on._

It hurts more than it should, especially considering how they didn't have a choice. Peter knows he should be happy that May finally found love again, that Tony and Pepper are happy, that Morgan exists.

But the only thing he feels is replaced.

Morgan, however, fixes that. She bounces into his life like a ball of concentrated sunshine, four years old, with a _get well soon_ balloon tied around her wrist. It's the third day of waiting for news on Tony, and Peter hasn't moved from his seat except to use the bathroom and get water from the water fountain around the corner. He's exhausted, hungry, and absolutely terrified that (even though Helen says Tony will pull through with only scarring) he'll get the news that yet another father figure of his has died to protect him. 

Morgan plops down into the empty seat next to him just as he's about to drift off and sets a granola bar on his leg before launching into a happy introduction of herself and explaining what her balloon means. Peter, on the brink of unconsciousness, stares at her as if she's a ghost before quietly unwrapping the bar and eating it in three bites.

"You're the spider boy, right?" Morgan asks, grinning and poking Peter's hollow cheek. "Daddy talked about you lots. And he showed me pictures and your suit and videos of you and I have a Spider-Man stuffy on my bed. But my favorite stuffy is an elephant. Do you know what an elephant is? Do you have any stuffies on your bed? What kind of stuffies do you have? What's your favorite color? Mine's purple. But blue's pretty too. And pink. And yellow. And-"

She seems to talk for hours, never once stopping to take a breath, weighing the pro's and con's of purple and yellow before launching into a description of her stuffed elephant and recanting a story about Peter and a bird (he's pretty sure it's a euphemism for the Vulture incident, but it's so watered-down that he can't really tell). Peter listens the entire time until Helen finally comes out of Tony's room and starts to explain everything to come. Explains that Tony's going to be okay.

But the damage is done. Peter already knows he would die for Morgan Stark.

Without hesitation.

⎊

"You're sure you'll be okay?"

Peter sighs and nods for what feels like the millionth time, patting Morgan on the head as she hands him another sheet of paper with a few colorful scribbles in the top right corner. He adds it to a growing pile of nearly-empty shets, stacks them up neatly, and turns to a visibly anxious Pepper.

"Pep, we're going to be fine," he says tiredly. "I have everybody's numbers on a sheet on the fridge and nine-one-one on speed dial. I have _Captain America's_ phone number."

"And you have food? Do you know where we keep the juice pops?"

"Fridge!" Morgan chirps, gripping her battered Spider-Man stuffy by its felt hand. "Two boxes, grape and orange. Daddy's cherry pops are in the other one." She sticks her tongue out at Tony, who's fixing his tie, and glances at Peter. "We can't have Daddy's pops. He says he'll take my toys."

"Then we'll make sure to stick to the orange and grape ones, Morgie."

"You'd better," Tony mutters, pecking Morgan on the cheek. "Because if you leave me the grape ones, I'll take _all_ of your toys. Those things taste like shi-"

Pepper smacks him gently on the shoulder, shaking her head. " _Language,_ Tony."

"She's heard it already!" 

Peter snickers. "From you."

"That doesn't _mean_ she hasn't heard it!"

"And _that_ doesn't mean you can say it! She soaks that stuff up like a _sponge_ ," Pepper says, exasperated, and grabs her purse off of the counter. "And she'll say it at the most opportune time. We both know that."

"Like a _sponge_ ," Morgan repeats, eyes as wide as saucers. She bounces across the kitchen and grabs the green and yellow sponge off of its dish. The little girl squeezes it, grinning toothily. A spurt of water hits the floor.

Tony practically _smacks_ himself in the face, shooting Peter an annoyed glare. "There's an extra roll of paper towels in the top cabinet if you need 'em. Have a ball, kiddos."

It's such a _Tony_ thing to say that Peter's filled with a burst of warmth, of _appreciation._ He's _so lucky_ to have had someone who loved him enough to push himself to the brink of death (literally) just to bring him back to life. 

He's so lucky to be able to share in such a domestic scene.

"Thanks, Mister Stark," Peter says. Morgan latches onto the leg of his sweatpants, balling up the fabric in her little fists and looking up at him like he hung the stars. Peter musses up her hair (the exact shade as Tony's, and getting darker by the day) to her chagrin, laughing as she snorts and pulls away. "And Morgie knows not to say bad words. Right, Morgie?"

There's a moment of silence as Morgan mulls over what he's said, sticks her lip out, and says- without hesitation, he might add- " _Shit?"_

Pepper's handbag hits the floor. Tony's entire face blows up like a cartoon figure, cheeks red, eyes wide, painted with the fear of a man with an angry wife.

Peter can feel the pressure building behind his eyes until he physically can't hold the laugh in anymore, reaching down to pat Morgan on the shoulder as he gasps for breath. "No, Morgie, that's- that's a bad word," he says, barely breathing. "We- we don't say that word, okay?"

"But daddy said it! Why can't I?" 

That pout is almost too much to resist.

"Daddy _shouldn't_ have said it," Pepper says, trying to hide her smile. "Especially not around you."

"It's- it's a _grown-up_ word." Tony crouches down, groaning as his knees crack, and pecks Morgan on the cheek before looking her firmly (as firmly as it gets for him, at least) in the eyes. "You don't say that word until you're grown, okay?"

"How old is-"

Peter covers her mouth with one hand and grins at Tony and Pepper, jerking his head toward the door. "You're never gonna get out of here if you don't leave now," he says, the corner of his lip tugging upward. "Go ahead and have a good night at your party or whatever. Morgie's going to be fine. We've got a fun night ahead of us, right?"

Morgan nods happily and detaches herself from Peter's leg to hug Pepper before grabbing on again and stuffing her thumb in her mouth. "Bye, mommy! Bye, daddy!"

Peter echoes her, watching as Pepper and Tony wave their good-byes and step out of the front door. The two kids sit together at the front window of the lakehouse until Tony's car revvs out of the driveway and out of sight, kicking up dust in its wake.

"Juice pops?"

"Juice pops."

⎊

The hours pass like fleeting seconds, dancing by and disappearing entirely. It's almost surreal- Pepper and Tony leave, Peter pulls out the juice pops and a sheet of stickers, and before he can blink, it's eleven at night and Morgan's yawning her little head off. They take up residence on the couch in the living room, Morgan curled into his side with her thumb still firmly stuck in her mouth, and scroll through their movie options until she sees something she likes.

Frozen wouldn't have been Peter's first choice (he leans toward The Incredibles, for obvious reasons) but he doesn't mind. After all, he can sing every song from memory, so he can't complain.

They sit there for another hour, Morgan's eyes glued to the screen, Peter checking his texts every few minutes to see if Tony and Pepper are on their way back (they aren't). He can feel himself dozing off after a long day of playing dollhouse. Eyelids droop, slack over tired eyes.

"Petey?" Morgan says drowsily, cuddling into his side. 

"Yeah?"

" 'M tired."

Peter laughs quietly, brushes a stray strand of hair out of her face, and yawns. "Me too, Mo. You wanna go to bed?"

She nods and grabs her stuffy off of the cushions before winding her arms around his torso like a koala, latching on for dear life. Peter switches the television off and stands, Morgan firmly attatched to his shoulders.

Morgan's bedroom is the farthest from the stairs on the second level. The walls are lavender and the windows are covered with gauzy curtains. The bed is covered with stuffed animals. The sheets are patterned with Black Widow's signature hourglass.

It's a little girl's dream bedroom, obviously.

Peter carries Morgan up the stairs, using the railing as a support, and tucks her into bed without difficulty. She drifts off the minute her head hits the pillow. He tucks her favorite stuffy under her arm, pecks her on the forehead, and turns off the lights, leaving the door open so he'll be able to hear if she wakes up. The house is dark and silent; the only lights come from the Starks' bedroom and the kitchen.

Peter heads down the stairs to wait the night out on the couch. He never makes it to the living room.

The familiar buzzing sensation of his spidey sense goes off halfway down the hallway, right as he's passing the bathroom. Peter reacts only a second too late- he jumps back just as an explosion rocks the house, ripping through the floor in front of him and sending him flying backward. He hits a wall hard, slams his head into what feels like a table, and slides to the ground with firecrackers of pain in his temples.

Morgan _screams._

It feels like something's broken in the back of his neck- maybe just shifted out of place, actually, because _God,_ he hopes he hasn't broken his neck. That would be really bad. Can you shift a vertebra out of place? Peter hopes so, because anything more is something of a catastrophic scale that he can't really think about.

And besides, who would protect Morgan?

It hurts like hell to try and stand, but he does it anyway, using the wall and the white trim of a doorframe (not white anymore) to drag himself to his feet, wincing all the way. His breath whistles through his teeth like wind in the trees; if he bites down any harder, he'll _definitely_ break something. 

Everything burns. 

_Everything burns._

_No_ , Peter thinks drowsily, looking at the gaping maw of what used to be a hallway, _you're not burning. The house is burning, but you aren't._

The destruction is similar to that of a bomb- shrapnel, fire, and that choking black smoke that billows out of the hole in the floor. It probably _was_ a bomb. An intentional attempt on Morgan's life. Someone had tried to kill a _five-year-old._

"Sick," Peter mutters, struggling to right himself against the wall before taking an unsteady step backwards, in the direction of Morgan's room. She's crying; he can barely hear her over the ringing in his ears, but the sound of her tears forces its way through the splintering wood around him.

_"Petey!"_ She shrieks, muffled by distance. _"Petey! Petey! Pe-tey!"_

"I'm- I'm coming!" Peter yells back. The words scrape his raw throat and rip at the inside of his mouth. Smoke, he remembers, is a leading cause of death in household accidents involving fire. The inhalation can kill just as well as the flames.

Morgan is _not_ going to die.

"I'm c-coming!" He says again, staggering down the hall and into her room. It's mostly undisturbed, save for a jagged hole in the wall closest to the explosion and the thick layer of smoke that wafts through it. No shrapnel.

Morgan stares at Peter from beneath her covers, eyes wide and teary. Even from here, he can see that she's shaking (from fear or shock, he can't tell).

Morgan chokes out another sob and drops her blankets. Her arms extend in that infantile motion: _hold me, I'm scared._

Peter doesn't hesitate. He rushes forward and pulls her out from under the covers, clutching her tightly to his chest and cradling his head as he tries to figure out the best plan of action. That infernal buzzing hasn't stopped, just lessened from a siren to a warning. The initial danger is over, but they're not safe yet.

"Pe-tey," Morgan whines, clutching at his sweater. Her face is streaked with dust from the explosion, tears cutting tracks over her cheeks. "Petey, I want mommy."

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

"I want _mommy_."

"I'll get you to mommy." The sound of a creaking floorboard in the hall sends a chill up his spine. Peter places a finger over Morgan's mouth, vaulting over the bed to crouch on the side farthest from the door, hiding both of them from view. "But you have to be quiet now," he whispers. "So I can get you to safety, okay? Can you do that for me?"

The little girl nods, making a little _shh_ sound with her teeth. "I can."

"Good," Peter murmurs. "Thank you, Morgie."

Another _creak_ from the hallway, and his senses are in overdrive, scoping out every possible exit. The most opportune is, obviously, the window, but Peter's webshooters are in the kitchen. There's no time to go get them.

He has to get Morgan to safety before he deals with this.

"Hold on to me."

Morgan nods again and tightens her grip. He stands and carefully steps over to the window, using the walls as a support for his ringing head and tired body. Scaling the side of buildings is normally second nature.

This isn't going to be good.

The window gives without struggle, sliding up from its closed position and giving way to a cool breeze. Peter steps up onto the sill, crouching in the opening, and steps out onto the roof with more than a little hesitation.

He's unsteady, in a bad condition, and protecting a _kid_. This is an _awful_ idea.

Peter sucks in a deep breath and warily shuffles his way toward the edge of the roof, cushioning Morgan's head with one hand. He shouldn't be afraid of this- it's a two-story house and he's climbed buildings so much taller than this without fear. But he's in pain and there's a kid on his hip, so if he falls, she falls too.

_He's not going to let her fall_.

Peter's foot slips against a loose shingle and he barely catches himself, inhaling sharply. His heart jumps up to his throat. Morgan yelps, reaches up to grab at anything she can (it's his hair) and _yanks_ as hard as she can.

It doesn't matter how strong he is, because the combination of his headache and the shock of having his head pulled off balance is more than enough to disrupt any sense of calm he'd had and sends them both _flying_ off of the roof. 

On instinct, Peter shifts Morgan to his chest and flips in the air so that his back is the first thing to make contact with the bushes in front of the house. They cushion his fall- they never hit the ground- but thorns and branches dig into his skin like nails. He can feel the blood trickling from his skin and soaking into his shirt.

"Morgie, Morgie, Morgie," he says, hushed, and runs his hands over her face and legs to make sure she's not hurt. "You're okay. You're okay."

Morgan whimpers in his grip and nods. " 'M okay, Petey. Wanna go 'way."

"I know. I know, I'm trying, honey. You're gonna be fine."

"But I wanna go _now."_

Tears prick at Peter's eyes. He reaches up to wipe them away before she sees. She's about to cry- he knows that, and he can't stop it. Seeing someone who's supposed to be strong break own is the last thing she needs right now. 

"I know."

There's nothing else to be said.

Peter picks his way out of the bushes, holding Morgan close to his chest as he crouches in the darkness. The house looks like a burnt-out jack-o-lantern, flames licking at the upstairs windows and spreading fast. Peter's phone- the only way he can contact Tony- is in the living room, and if it's destroyed, they have no chance. He has to get it before someone gets him.

But his priority, as always, is Morgan.

Nobody's left the house yet; they can't have realized their targets aren't inside anymore. Under the cover of the night, Peter runs across the lawn and toward the woods, crouched low to the ground with the little girl facing away from the house. She doesn't need to see that.

"I'm going to find somewhere for you to hide," he whispers, breathing heavily and trying to hold in a cough. "And you have to stay there. No matter what anybody says."

"But what if-"

"No. You don't come out unless daddy or mommy tell you to."

"Even if you're hurt?" She asks, sniffling.

"Even if I'm hurt."

The confirmation is almost worse than their predicament. Peter doesn't want to scar her- she's so _young_ , and she doesn't deserve this- but he knows that he could be used as leverage to get to her in this situation and he can't let that happen.

"Morgan," he pants, ducking into the cover of the trees and slowing down to avoid falling. "My life is not worth yours in this situation. You come first."

" _Petey,_ no! I don' wan' you to get hurt." Morgan bounces against Peter's shoulder as he runs. Her hair flies into his face. Her fists bump against his neck and collarbones. 

He skids to a stop next to an oak tree with thick foliage and pats her on the back, shushing her quickly. On any other occasion, he would obviously keep talking to her; being ignored is one of the worst things to tell a kid at her age, and Morgan's too smart to fall for the "adults know better" spiel. She has Tony for a dad, so she's _very_ aware of the fact that they don't.

But he doesn't have time.

"You're just going to have to trust me and listen to me here," he says, just a little bit snappishly. "I can't fight you on this. You're going to be okay, and I'm going to make sure you stay that way." He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, trying to calm down. He can't be harsh with her- she's scared and way too young for what's happening. "This is the part where you listen to me. Can you do that?"

From the way Morgan's lower lip sticks out, she doesn't want to. Nevertheless, she nods, eyes shining in the moonlight like silver dollars.

"Good." Peter lifts her to his hip again, groans at a sudden influx of pain in his lungs and injured neck, and places his free hand palm-first on the bark of the oak. Needles shoot up his arm as he lifts himself bodily into the air and begins a slow, careful climb up the side of the tree, Morgan in tow, hissing through his teeth as his rubs and lungs burn. Coughs tickle his throat, but he holds them in- he has to be quiet, has to be strong, can't let them know.

They'll hear him if he makes a sound.

Lost in thought, Peter doesn't notice a loose piece of bark and sets his hand down on it only to have it rip away. He falls back, catching his breath, and feels Morgan's grip on his neck tighten to uncomfortable lengths.

But it's okay. She won't let herself fall.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and moves his hand to a different spot before heaving himself skyward. Peter's muscles scream in pain, scream for him to stop, to give up, to let himself fall, but he knows he can't give in.

So he doesn't.

They make it to the lowest branch within minutes, Peter winded and exhausted. Morgan's chest hitches as he sets her in the fork of the tree and pulls his hoodie off, tying it around her waist and securing its sleeves to a thick branch.

"You gotta stay here, okay?" He wheezes, running a hand over her cheek. In the darkness, the only thing he can see is her disney-princess eyes, shining in the low light from the burning house. "You gotta stay."

"Petey." 

It's such a plaintive thing, the way she reaches out with grabby hands in a desperate attempt to pull him back. Peter leans away, pushing her to safety, and shakes his head.

"I'll be back soon. I promise."

And he leaves her there.

He _leaves her._

⎊

Peter catches the first glimpses of their attackers as he sneaks back toward the house. Across the well-manicured lawn, it looks like a burning husk, a skull smiling back at him with a toothy grin and evil eyes. _Your fault, your fault, your fault,_ it sings, taunting him as its windows shatter and its belongings burn.

Shadows move in the upstairs and downstairs windows. There are more of them than he'd been expecting, and his spidey-sense flares up so badly that he jolts in his spot in the bushes. It's _bad-_ worse than he'd thought, and getting worse by the minute. Peter can count a silhouette in each window, every one armed with what looks like a rifle. The lakehouse looks haunted from this angle, with ghosts there to keep people out.

These ghosts are real.

Peter creeps across the scorcher yards like a specter, low to the ground and alert to every outside stimulus. Moving is easier without Morgan attatched to his shoulder, and the pain is less, but the pounding in his head is an ever-present nuisance and the back of his neck feels like something's been driven in between his bones. Still, he can move, so he has no excuse to stop. No time to take a break and recover.

The porch is still existant, although the fire is quickly spreading to the railings and one of the couches looks like a pincushion. The front door is unguarded, and there's only one window in the living room- next to the television, on the far side of the staircase. Peter's phone and web-shooters are on the table in the middle of the room, leaving him unguarded once he passes the couch. But if he can just grab them and run, he can get away safely and call Tony and Pepper home.

He doesn't have to fight them here.

_But, as usual, he probably will._

Peter takes a deep breath, wincing as the pain in his neck prickles, and opens the door as slowly and quietly as he can. Over the crackling sound of the house falling apart, there's very little chance of any of the soldiers hearing him unless they're enhanced.

Please don't be enhanced.

One foot forward, then another, then another. He barely breathes as he makes slow progress into the living room, trying not to take in any of the damage around him. The couch area is more or less unharmed, and his cracked phone sits in the center of the table, unharmed.

His web-shooters are nowhere to be seen.

In his panic, Peter forgets about Morgan in the woods and the many soldiers scattered through the first and second floors. He dives to the floor, shaking as he scrambles to look under the couch and side tables and carpet, anywhere they could be, because those are his _only defense._ Without them, he has no chance, and he knows it. Those shooters are what makes him Spider-Man. Without them, he's a strong guy with sticky feet and hands.

He can't protect Morgan without them.

Behind him, just loud enough to be heard over the constant breaking of the surrounding structure, the floor creaks. His senses heighten immediately, taking in an imperceptible change in the atmosphere, a small depletion in the surrounding oxygen.

Peter whirls around faster than he can blink and comes face to face with a man in black. His head is bald and shiny. Green eyes stare out from behind a black balaclava, shrewd and calculating. 

In his hand are Peter's web-shooters.

"Those don't belong to you," he snaps, holding a trembling hand out as if he thinks the man will give them back if he asks nicely. "Hand them to me."

The lines around those clear green eyes wrinkle. _He's smiling,_ Peter realizes. _He thinks this is funny._

More insistent this time, he reaches further.

" _Give them to me_ ," Peter says slowly, eyes hardening in contrast with the man's light demeanor. 

"I don't think I will."

He doesn't sound like an attempted kidnapper or an arsonist, really. This guy- whoever he is- has the aura and voice of a middle-aged soccer dad. A slight accent carries with his soft words, unidentifiable.

"This isn't your house." _Stop shaking._ "You shouldn't be here."

"I probably shouldn't be." The man shrugs. "But I am, and you are, and she is. And you are terribly outnumbered, _Spider-Man."_

Peter takes an involuntary step back and curses as the shaking in his hands spreads to his legs. His neck hurts _so bad;_ something has to be seriously wrong. Broken, probably, and healing incorrectly because of his factor.

"You know that, right? You're a smart boy. There are a lot of people in this house, and last I checked, there's only one of you."

Peter scoffs, carefully reaching back to trail his fingers over the table. "Like you said, man," he says, still searching blindly along the smooth wood surface. "I'm Spider-Man."

His fingers find the phone just as another explosion rocks the house, this one stronger than the first. The house crumbles around Peter and his attacker as he frantically dials Tony's number, crumpling to the floor and crawling under the table. The man screams in frustration as windows shatter and glasses fall from the shelves, dropping Peter's web-shooters as he moves desperately to find safety of his own. This would be a perfect time for him to take them and turn the dial, but Peter isn't thinking of that- he just listens shakily as Tony's number is dialed and the phone rings.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Beep beep beep beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep-_

A third explosion tears the kitchen to pieces and Peter, too distracted to save himself, watches dumbly as Pepper's favorite couch hurtles toward his face.

He doesn't see anything else.

**_Your call has been forwarded to voicemail. 555-693-9883 is not available. Please leave a message at the tone or call back at another time._ **

⎊

Tony doesn't check his phone until the party is halfway over and he's so bored he can hardly breathe, and that in itself is a tragedy. It's the most stuffy function he's been to since he was twelve and following his father around, introducing himself to people who would later work for him in an attempt to make the company like him more.

Those aren't fond memories.

But there are people there who he has no choice but to deal with, and Rhodey was required by the Secretary of State to attend, so at least he isn't completely alone.

Pepper is much more attuned to social events than he is. She flits from circle to circle like a butterfly in her dress, a flute of champagne held daintily in her hand, smiling and cracking jokes wherever she goes. Tony doesn't envy her ability to fit in with people like this- he admires it, really. She's the only reason he's afloat in this corporate ocean, and he's grateful to that.

But being able to leave a bit early would be great.

Tony pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time only to see a missed call from Peter lighting up his screen. The time sent is marked at fourteen minutes ago- long enough for the kid to have figured out whatever's happening and fixed the issue. But still, it couldn't hurt to check up on him and see how everything's going. Talk to Morgan if she isn't asleep already.

He steps into an unoccupied corner of the large bar/room area they've set up in and swipes right, holding the phone up and listening as it dials Peter's number. He expects an answer within the first two rings.

The tone ends without an answer.

**_Your call has been-_ **

Nervously, Tony punches Peter's number in a second time and listens.

**_Your_ _call-_**

No way.

He knows it's probably the simplest thing; the kid's probably just in the bathroom or watching a movie or something. The sick feeling in his throat, however, says differently.

Something is wrong.

Tony finds Pepper by the bar and takes her by the elbow, pulling her away before she can argue. She struggles as he leads her out of the room, gripping his phone in white knuckles, and doesn't stop until he closes the elevator door and releases her.

"Tony-"

"We're going home," he snaps, grabbing his wristwatch and pulling his gauntlet over his hand in a single motion. "Something's wrong with the kids."

Pepper places a hand over her mouth, face pale. "You can't be serious, Tony."

"I've never been more serious," he chuckles wanly, checking the time. It's been seventeen minutes since Peter's call sent. Seventeen minutes too long. "The kid called me. I didn't answer. And now, he's not picking up."

"You're sure he's not just angry with you for not answering?"

"That's not something he would do."

And it isn't. When Peter's angry, he talks things out or gets his revenge. He doesn't ignore calls, especially not from people who he knows would freak out if there was no answer.

"I know," Pepper murmurs, rubbing her bare arms nervously. "I know, Tony."

⎊

The car ride back to the house is exhaustingly slow. Tony finds himself bouncing his knee the entire time, going at least twenty miles over the speed limit. Thankfully, nobody pulls them over. Pepper doesn't seem to have the heart to tell him to slow down.

She's probably as nervous as he is, really.

The lakehouse, buried deep in the upstate woods, has one disadvantage- an annoyingly long driveway. Once Tony steers the car into the wooded, hidden area of his property, he floors the accelerator and roars into the forest, taking turns like an absolute madman. Pepper is calm in the passenger seat, bracing herself against the car door with nothing but white knuckles to show her fear.

He wishes he could hide things as easily as she does.

The first sign of damage comes in the form of a red light glowing through the trees. It looks hellish, almost, angrily glaring back at them from the direction of the lakehouse. Embers float through the air like fireflies.

But in this light, they certainly aren't a good omen.

"We're okay," Pepper murmurs, tears glistening in her eyes. "We're okay, Tony."

He doesn't have the heart to reply. After all, he isn't worried about himself. He's worried about his _damn children._

They stop the car behind a thick wall of laurapetalum shrubs, grown high enough to hide them from view of the house. Even from here, Tony can see the burned-out husk of their home. They'd built it up from the ground, stone by stone, plank by plank, until it had become what they needed to recover after the snap.

And it's gone now.

_Almost symbolic, really._

Tony catches his breath and swings his door open, motioning for Pepper to stay in the car. "Get the first aid kit," he orders sharply, "and call nine-one-one. And Rhodey and Happy. Tell them to get here as fast as they can."

She doesn't say anything, but her nod says that she understands.

He trusts her to do what she knows is right.

Tony races across the yard in his suit, loosening his tie as he moves. The burnt-out, empty windows leer back at him with what looks like malice.

_Fire can't feel malice, right?_

Maybe it can. Because this certainly feels like vengeance.

It takes only one strong kick to send the front door flying off its hinges and into the ruined husk of the living room. Tony doesn't stop to find a safe path. He just _runs,_ screaming for his kids. The hope he feels for an answer is broken when the only sound in the house is its constant breaking.

"Morgan!" He yells again, cupping his hands over his mouth and nose in an attempt to keep the smoke out of his lungs. His eyes burn with tears, both from the toxic atmosphere and the sinking of his heart. "Peter!? _Peter!"_

Still no answer.

He turns the corner, ducking around the ruined stairs, and stops short. There's a body in the middle of the room, lying face-down on a charred portion of the rug, splayed out in a spread-eagle. His heart stops- or it feels like it does, at least- as he scrambles to roll them over and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that it isn't Peter.

This isn't someone he knows- at least, he doesn't _think_ he knows any burned-to-hell bald guys. Hopefully. Tony's had some shitty experiences with bald guys.

He drops the body (it's definitely a body, thank goodness, there's no heartbeat) and blinks the tears out of his eyes before pulling the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose. He steps around the dead man, surveying the room, and finds something that might be even worse.

Peter's web-shooters lie in a mangled heap at the man's feet, nothing but bands of broken scrap. Gulping, Tony bends over and scoops them up, slipping them into his pocket and blinking away tears. Peter's been in here recently, which means Morgan might've been in here.

And they might still be.

Tony looks around frantically. He can feel the minute his heartbeat speeds up, taking in the destruction around him. Pepper's couch is practically embedded in the wall next to the television, and the coffee table lies in splinters all around the room.

A pale hand peeks out from behind the couch.

_Peter._

He's across the room before he can blink, heaving the couch out of his way with nearly inhuman strength. Peter lies against the wall, motionless, pale, bloody. A picture of death.

_He can't be dead._

Tony stifles a sob as he falls to his knees, pressing his fingers against the pulse point under Peter's neck. The boy is still and warm, and there's a single pulse beneath his fingers, followed by another, then another, then another. His heartbeat is thready. But it's there.

Blood rolls down his temple in a steady stream and pools beneath his head. There's soot smeared all over his bone-pale skin and bruises mark his arms. The poor kid's probably been pinned between the couch and the wall since he'd tried to call Tony and hadn't got an answer, maybe longer.

_God._

Tony's back creaks as he gathers Peter up in his arms and stands, slowly but surely straightening out and starting a slow, steady journey toward the front door. Peter's head lolls against his shoulder before rolling back to a sickly angle so that it's practically bent over Tony's shoulder. That's a neck injury if he's ever seen one- and a serious one, too. The amount of pain he's in...

_He's going to be okay,_ Tony tells himself.

It would be great if he could believe it.

They make it out of the house without any obstacles. Tony sees flashing lights in the trees, alternating red and blue, along with loud sirens and megaphones and crying.

The ambulances are here. _He's going to be okay._

Carefully, Tony adjusts Peter's head so that it's cushioned against his shoulder, wincing at the way it seems to flop around. Peter stirs in his arms, a painful-sounding cough ripping itself from his throat. Tony rubs his shoulder as much as he can.

"You're okay, Peter," he mutters, stepping carefully across the smoldering lawn. "You're gonna be okay. Just breathe."

Peter's voice is cracked, dry, and tired. "Miss'r Stark?" He asks, feebly struggling to find a way out of Tony's arms. "Miss'r Stark?"

"I'm here, I'm here," Tony coos. "You're going to be okay. Just be still for me, Peter, and let me help."

Something in the kid's muddled mind takes that and runs with it, because he stops moving and settles down. He pries a tired pair of eyes open, peering up at Tony like a man gone blind. Recognition shines in those brown orbs, and a small smile curves over his cracked lips.

Tony reaches the ambulances parked around his car and carefully sets Peter down on one of the prepared stretchers, looking around frantically for any sign of Pepper or Morgan. He finds them both, standing under a large oak tree while Pepper talks to a paramedic. Morgan seems largely unharmed, sucking on her thumb as she watches the proceeds with wide eyes.

_She's okay._ _You can focus on him._

Peter, lying prone on the stretcher, reaches out a shaking arm and takes Tony's wrist between his fingers. One of the paramedics walks over with a large foam collar and starts to fasten it around his neck, but the kid doesn't seem to notice. He has eyes only for Tony, and Tony for him.

In the burning light of his home, built from the ground up, Tony cries tears of joy. They may have broken the lakehouse, but they can't break the Starks.


End file.
